I've never been one to worry about gaining weight but it has to be said, my waist measurement has slowly and remorselessly crept up over the years. This fact was recently brought home to me when I decided to buy a new suit.
When the salesperson, a thin, anaemic, spotty faced youth, enquired my waist size I told him, thirty four inches. At which point he raised his eyebrows, appeared to smirk patronisingly, and reached for his tape measure.
"Sir has gained a few inches." He said smugly. He is very lucky that the shop was full of customers, because I wanted to punch him.
The first time I can recall my waist size meaning anything to me was when I was a snake hipped twenty nine inches.
After I married it suddenly became thirty inches, probably as a result of having regular meals for the first time since childhood. Although I would have thought that being newly married, and forced against my will to indulge in lots of lovemaking, would have kept me slim. But it didn't. Perhaps my technique was wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have let her do all the work.
Being a lazy lover, sitting watching lots of television, and yes, I'll admit it, being spoilt by my wife, gradually added another two inches, and there it stayed for a good long while. That was all right though. I didn't mind it being thirty two inches. I knew plenty of men my age who were a heck of a lot bigger round the middle.
Suddenly though, one day I found that a thirty two inch waistband seemed a little tight on me. How did that happen?
Maybe when my wife began to call me cuddly she was trying to point something out to me. Perhaps I was wrong to take her words as a compliment. Should I have taken her frequent references to my love handles as a warning? Could she have simply been trying to avoid the word fat?
You can't buy a pair of trousers with a thirty three inch waist. At least not off the peg. So I had to have a thirty four inch size, Which to be perfectly honest fitted nicely and were very comfortable to wear.
I wasn't happy with the extra inches though and silently promised myself that I would cut down on the cakes and biscuits which I blamed for the morbidly obese condition I found myself in. Thirty four inch waistline. Ugh! Disgusting!
I am shocked and saddened to have to tell you that this, my latest attempt at trouser buying has left me mortified. A thirty four inch waist will no longer suffice. The smug salesman was right. The skinny, condescending little bastard!
I hold my head in my hands. I sob, albeit in a discreet, and manly way.
My waist. No! The word waist is a falsehood. It is no longer a waist. My girth. There I've said it. My big fat girth measures thirty six inches. Thirty six inches! That's a metric yard. Blimey! Never mind a yard, that is big enough to be a backyard! A girth is also the name of the strap which holds a horses saddle on. It goes all the way around the horses middle. That says it all really. I am a fat man.
If that is my waist size how big must my backside appear. No! I'm not going to look. It will be far too upsetting. It must be horrendous.
It is not entirely my fault though. The disappearance of my waist is due to me having big genes. Or should that be big jeans. Never been too sure how to spell that word.
Perhaps I should have taken more notice when I realised that I no longer felt comfortable in medium size underpants, and was having to buy the large size. Oh the ignominy of it. I had put it down to the Chinese, who seem to have cornered the market in these articles, being quite small people.
Thank goodness for supermarkets. At least they make it possible to buy big underpants without having to ask for them by name.
I will not be trying to solve the problem by wearing tracksuit bottoms, or trousers with an elasticated waistband. No way. I have seen men who have adopted this solution, and they look like they have given up the battle of the bulge. They look like losers. Not losers of weight. That is not for me. I am going to fight like a man. Oh dear God! Now I have just had a vision of a fat man fighting. It is not pleasant. I have no intention of gaining the proportions of a sumo wrestler.
What a weak willed, burger scoffing, cake munching fool I've been. Not much wonder I can't find a girlfriend. Women must run a mile when they see me waddling towards them.
Oh well. Nothing else for it. I shall starve myself for a couple of weeks. Soon be back to my skinny self. After which, with my track record, I shall probably begin to lose the fat fight all over again.
What a good thing I'm not one to worry about gaining weight.